


hold me now ('til the fear is leaving)

by dragon_rider



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2625833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone spikes Adam's drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majestikmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majestikmoose/gifts).



> written for this prompt; "adam and blake are at a bar celebrating something for the voice, and adam's drink gets roofied at some point and he stumbles out of the bar and gets attacked by the guy that roofied him - but before anything seriously bad can happen, blake charges out and saves adam and there's lots of comfort and worried!blake and stuff afterward? bonus points for scared!adam."
> 
> now anon idk who you are but you have a beautiful brain and i want to kiss it.
> 
> sorry if this sucks. i feel like this prompt deserved so much better ):

It’s hard to lose sight of a man of Blake’s size and yet the bar is so crowded tonight that Adam does, huffing when the background music switches to another teen pop song.

He shakes his head, taking the last sip of his bottle as he waits for the Country singer to come back with their second round.

He’s not nervous, per se; they had an amazing week on the show, both of them still with two contestants in the top six. But he has this prickle at the back of his neck that makes him uneasy, the one you get when someone’s been staring at you too hard or too long or both.

He swallows and looks around for the umpteenth time, the last traces of alcohol turning bitter on his tongue. This time is the charm and he finally spots the reason for the spooky feeling creeping up his spine.

There’s a guy across the room with his eyes dead set on him. He’s dressed like he came out of the office ten minutes ago instead of planned to go out, his pressed suit standing out in a crowd clad in trends and accessories.

He walks to the booth Adam and Blake have been sharing as if that’s his cue when their eyes meet. He’s big enough that he probably wouldn’t look silly standing beside Adam’s tall, handsome and goofy friend who’s taking what feels like ages to get their drinks.

Adam looks through the hordes of people Blake made his way through wistfully, wishing he could be back already and cursing the rest of his fellow coaches—and Carson too, where the fuck is everyone?—that still haven’t gotten their asses here as they agreed.

“Hello, gorgeous,” the guy greets, sliding on the bench to sit next to Adam way too close for comfort, “This seat taken?”

Adam shuffles away from him, annoyed but trying his best to reel it in, and replies, “Yes, actually. Look, I don’t want to be mean—“

“Oh, no, no,” dude cuts in, flashing Adam a big toothy grin that could maybe be slightly attractive if he weren’t all over Adam’s space and giving him the creeps, “You have nothing to worry about, Adam. I just want to hang out with you. I feel like we could have a great time, you and I.”

Adam smiles as condescendingly as he can without being rude and tilts his head to the way the guy came from. “I’m here to hang out with my friends so unless you want to snap a picture or something like that, the answer is no.”

The man leers so openly at him Adam feels heat rising in his cheeks and edges further away from him, tensing.

“I know exactly what your problem is,” the man insists, his hand moving over the table so fast Adam can’t let go of his beer in time to avoid him seizing his own, “I want you because you’re the hottest thing I’ve seen in a while, not because you have a band. So let’s start over, shall we? Name’s Chuck.”

Adam sets his jaw and snatches his fingers away from this asshole before he can make a scene in one of the most popular bars in L.A.

“Sorry, not interested,” he states and just when he’s thinking he’ll have to stand up and leave because this douche doesn’t know when to quit Blake saunters back and flops beside Adam, leaving a tray with two shots of tequila and two beers for them on the table.

Blake takes one look at them and weaves one of his long arms around Adam’s shoulders, his touch warm and familiar.

Adam could turn to give him one of those loud smooches on the cheek his friend likes so much—Blake is so perceptive. Adam loves that about him.

“Who’s this sketchy dude, buddy?” Blake whispers in Adam’s ear, “Friend of yours?”

He shakes his head and speaks up. “He was just leaving.”

Douchepants glares at Blake in a way that makes Adam press closer against his friend’s side, suddenly and ridiculously protective of him.

“Do I need to bring you drinks to get you, Adam?” he sneers, “That what you’re saying? Because I can do that and better.”

Before he can tell the asshole to fuck off and never come back, Blake beats him to it and also smacks the hand that was creeping out to reach Adam.

“Get your ass out of my sight,” Blake threatens in a growl, “or I’ll make you. And trust me, pal, it won’t end well for you.”

“You’ll change your mind,” the creep says cryptically, leering one last time at Adam.

He leaves— _finally_. Adam drinks down one shot, shivering with the burn of it, and goes back to snuggle against Blake’s side.

He doesn’t give a damn if he looks pathetic or clingy; that dude put him on edge and the fastest way to feel at ease again is one of Blake’s renowned snug hugs.

“Worst come-on in the history of come-ons, huh?” Blake asks, sipping his beer and obliging him without mocking him not even half as much as Adam was expecting he would, “My poor little buddy, almost molested. The cons of being the Sexiest Man Alive, uh?”

“Oh, shut up,” Adam snorts halfheartedly, enjoying how Blake’s arm tightens around him.

That’s how everyone finds them; joking while pressed close against each other.

Even Shakira and Usher made time to get together. The Latina coos at them, stealing Adam’s beer—not that he minds—and giggling with Gwen when the newbie on her chair confides that Adam and Blake are way closer than anyone could really expect.

Carson shakes his head as he takes a seat at Blake’s right, used to their antics.

By the time Pharrell and Usher get back with more drinks, Adam feels like he can afford being a bit dignified and itches away from Blake—not that the taller man lets him get very far, almost pulling him into his lap every time someone gets too close to their table.

Adam can still feel eyes on him so he doesn’t complain.

***

They don’t drink as much as they talk and laugh but eventually Adam gets picked unanimously to go fetch refills for everyone.

He makes his way to the counter with a little swagger on his step. He figures that by now however sorry fucker that hit on him must’ve gone home. It’s a soothing thought, even in its uncertainty, and it keeps him from looking around in paranoia when he feels and hears people waddling too closely around him.

He discovers he’s wrong two seconds too late. A hand lands on his forearm, foreign and intrusive, and seizes his wrist when he tries to let go.

“Now, now,” Douchepants chides, leaning into his space, his other arm on the counter practically glued to Adam’s side. He’s pressed right against his back and the lack of personal space has Adam flinching, “I’ve been so nice to you, Adam, I really have, but if you keep this Ice Prince act I’m going to have to believe the rumors and call you a jerk. Still a jerk I’d bang though and I _will_ have you, that’s a promise.”

“Do whatever the fuck you want, jackass, just do it away from me,” Adam hisses, elbowing the guy on the ribs and very much game to spray the son of a bitch’s face with the first drink that his fingers can grasp.

Blake reappears, as if summoned by sheer necessity, and stops him from ending up in every tabloid’s front page the next day.

He holds Adam’s waist and flushes him to his side at the same time he thanks the bartender for their drinks that are placed neatly in front of them.

He turns to confront the creepy dude but he’s nowhere to be seen.

“You okay, Adam?” he asks, a frown on his features, blue eyes bright despite the low light of the bar.

Adam nods, waits for Blake to let go and grabs the tray to make his way back to their booth.

He won’t admit it, not ever, but the one thing that stops him from trembling like a leaf and breaking every glass he’s carrying by tripping over his own feet is Blake’s solid frame by his side and his big palm on Adam’s knee when they sit down, comforting him enough to stand up and dance with his friends for a while and doubling over in laughter when Blake does his infamous shuffling.

He doesn’t tell Blake about the threat; he doesn’t need to. The Country star  hardly leaves his side the rest of the night and perhaps Adam should start worrying about spending too much time in Blake’s lap because their friends and co-workers don’t even bat an eyelash when Adam feels too light-headed and drunkenly steadies himself by using Blake’s frame as his own personal, comfy chair.

Blake makes himself comfortable without complaining, hands settling on Adam’s waist as he shifts slightly on the booth and widens his stance to give Adam more room to cuddle.

Have the guys been sneaking drinks on him? He feels so smashed all of a sudden there’s hardly another explanation for it.

“Someone’s a bit of a lightweight,” Usher teases, “How many did he have before we got here, man? He’s plastered.”

Blake’s breath tickles against Adam’s forehead and he can’t suppress a tipsy little giggle that has his friends laughing at him even more. “One too many apparently,” he drawls.

Adam tries to say he’s not that drunk—it’s fuzzy but he’s almost sure he only had like two shots and two beers and that’s never been enough to get him smashed but maybe he drank more than that and can’t remember?—but it comes out as an incoherent hum. His tongue is numb, dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth, and try as he might he can’t make it work properly. The only thing that he gets for his efforts is adding an extra weight to his eyelids that he can’t shake off either.

He puffs against Blake’s neck, achingly drowsy, and tugs weakly at his flannel shirt to let him know he wants to go home.

Carson is the one who makes a thoughtful noise, noticing. “I think it’s time to go,” he remarks, “It is getting late.”

Shakira, Gwen and Pharrell had all left already, so Usher and Blake agree easily.

They debate whether to let Usher drive them all home or call some cabs. Adam loses the words in the conversation, too focused to put one foot in front of the other when Blake pulls them both to their feet and forces Adam to take a couple of steps to the exit.

As soon as the taller man lets go of him, Adam ends up flat on his ass and blinks up blearily, swaying as his legs not only refuse to support him but his arms flail at his sides in an uncoordinated mess that’s absolutely useless at helping him up.

He admits, disoriented, that maybe he did drink too much after all.

He can’t remember the last time he was this drunk.

“Whoa, buddy, okay,” Blake says, picking him up and sitting him back on the bench.

He’s chortling—of course he is—and poking Adam in the cheek when he huddles on the table, about three seconds from nodding off.

***

Blake nudges Adam awake several times only for the younger man to squint at him and curl a bit tighter into himself as soon as Blake takes his hands off him, already dozing again.

“Someone won’t be able to remember his own freaking address if we let him take a cab,” he jokes, a little too stiffly, a worried frown on his face as he tries shaking his friend out of it this time, hands gripping his shoulders, “C’mon, Earth to Adam, you there, little guy?”

He’s practically listless in Blake’s hands, not an ounce of strength in his lean frame as he sags like a ragdoll with Blake’s movements.

When Adam whines and goes back to rest heavily on his arms as soon as he lets go, neither of them can laugh at him anymore.

Blake’s gut clenches and he scowls harder, making a quick recount of the drinks they all had throughout the night and coming up short for an actual reason for Adam to be this hammered.

“Seriously, dude,” Usher breathes out, concerned, “How much did he drink? Do we need to get him to a hospital?”

“Let’s try taking him home and hydrating him first,” Carson advices, making a face no doubt at the clusterfuck Adam passed-out drunk in the news would be, “With some luck, he’ll throw up and feel better in a little while.”

Carson and Usher go outside to get Carson’s car and Blake strolls to the register as quickly as he can to get his credit card back since it was his turn to pay for their rounds.

“Mister Shelton, just in time,” the bartender greets him, “Do you have another card? This one’s giving us trouble.”

Blake swears under his breath but scrambles for his wallet and produces another card for the girl to use.

It works with no issues this time but it takes a few minutes that Blake spends fidgeting and looking back to where Adam is without actually seeing him, the bar still full of people even at this late hour.

He stops himself every time his mind wonders whether that fucktard left or not. He must have, he thinks, because he didn’t come back to pester Adam again after all and he had plenty of times to do that while they were fooling around.

When he finally goes back for Adam his heart sinks.

The booth is empty and the rock star is nowhere to be seen.

Finding the back door takes too long for his liking, as freaked as he’s feeling right now, but he gets to it and opens it to be slapped in the face by the chilly air of the early morning in the alley behind the bar.

“Adam?” he calls out, hoping his friend found his footing enough to go out for some much-needed fresh air that could ease the effects of alcohol a bit, “Adam, you out here?”

He’s mid-way to making a joke about holding Adam’s hair back while he pukes when he hears it—a whimper, high-pitched and somehow familiar, followed by a snarled curse and dull noises somewhere to his left.

Blake runs towards the turmoil without a second thought and his insides freeze over at what he sees.

There, in the darkest corner of the backstreet, is the creepy fucker that was so hell-bent on getting the attention of his friend tonight.

He’s pinning Adam against the wall as his friend struggles, weak and breathless, to get him off. The man’s hand is already inside Adam’s jeans, buckle loose and rattling every time he forces the smaller man back and smacks Adam’s head against the bricks.

Blake takes it all in so fast he gets dizzy with it and almost loses tracks of his own actions when he drags Adam’s attacker by the collar and shoves him against the opposite wall, pouncing on him with his fists before the asshole can realize what’s happening.

One of the first things that Blake does is kicking him in the nuts hard enough for him to never forget about how exactly it feels when you think with your dick and nothing else.

It’s nothing but the sounds of his knuckles colliding against breakable flesh and bones then. He doesn’t give the fucker a small window of a chance to get away, kicking him in the calves and knocking him off his feet every time he tries to escape or hit back.

Blake doesn’t scream or growl, doesn’t make a sound and is deadly silent as he teaches this disgusting man a lesson. He punches the guy’s jaw getting a satisfying crack when the bastard tries shouting for help.

By the time he lifts the assailant by the throat until his feet are barely touching the ground his hands are bloody and throbbing.

“What did you do to him?” he spits out, not feeling the slightest bit better at seeing the bloody pulp of a face he left the man with, “What did you give him, you son of a bitch?”

The guy chokes—probably on a tooth, Blake notes absentmindedly—but answers quickly, as if afraid Blake will go back to beat the crap out of him unless he does. “R-Roofies… just a little bit!” he adds frantically when Blake knees him in the stomach and drops him forcefully, making him yelp, “He’ll sleep it off and be fine!”

“He better be,” Blake growls, twisting the man’s arms behind his back when he once again tries to bolt.

He immobilizes him with a hand, the other rummaging in the asshole’s pockets until he fishes his driving license and pushes him head-first into a trash can nearby.

“Don’t ever touch him again,” Blake threatens, saving the document in his pocket as he looks down at the man with enough disdain to make him balk and barely enough restrain not to keep beating him, “Or I’ll track you down and hunt you.”

The bastard nods pitifully and hauls himself to his feet—not without some effort—and staggers out of the alley. Blake follows him with his eyes until he’s sure he won’t be coming back and then hurries to Adam’s side.

His friend is lying on the ground, his eyes wide with adrenalin but hazy with the drug he took against his will. He’s panting through his mouth, pale and sweaty, one of the corners of his lips smeared with blood and spit all the way down to his chin, all the lower half of his face mottled with imprints of fingertips—that were made probably to keep him quiet, Blake realizes sourly.

Adam shies away from him when Blake kneels in front him, the streetlights blocked by Blake’s broad back probably not enough for him to recognize the Country singer.

He shushes him gently, calling him by his name, and it takes Adam a couple of seconds to recognize him but he does and stops giving Blake the least injured side of his face as if expecting more blows to come, a low sound that might be relief rushing past his swollen lips as Blake helps him sit up carefully and zips his pants to get him at least a little bit more comfortable.

There’s a long gash on Adam’s left cheek, angry red and dirty with grime, and when Blake gingerly touches his head looking for more wounds the lumps he can already feel forming in the back of it have him wincing, but at least his fingers don’t come sticky with more blood.

“Oh, buddy,” he whispers, sympathetic, “He did a real number on you.”

He’s not sure Adam can understand what he’s saying—he’s more willing to bet Adam won’t remember a damn thing in the morning, actually, and that has him gritting his teeth and wishing he’d hit Adam’s aggressor some more—but the younger man looks up at him, leaning into his touch, and climbs gracelessly to his arms as soon as Blake is done checking him for grave wounds with his palms pressed on the sides of his neck.

The bruises around his throat are ugly but it looks like Adam can breathe normally once he’s calmed down enough and Blake is grateful for it—it seems he found Adam in time even if he shouldn’t have left him alone in the first place.

“Don’t,” it’s the first thing Adam slurs when Blake tries to get to his feet, clinging to him like a lifeline, “Don’t leave, please.”

There’s a minute tremor going through Adam’s body and just the thought of letting go of his friend when he’s like this—when he clearly needs him the most—breaks Blake’s heart.

“I won’t, promise,” he appeases, taking a few seconds to smooth a hand through Adam’s hair softly and kiss his forehead, “But we need to leave, okay? I’m gonna get us out of here.”

Adam seems to take some time to consider this. Eventually, his grip loosens and he burrows into the crook of Blake’s neck instead of accidentally trying to smother him. “’Kay,” he accepts, voice sluggish and so quiet Blake almost misses it, “Trust you.”

Adam still whimpers when Blake gets them both off the ground, bruised all over as he must be.

Strangely, Blake’s back doesn’t pop with the strain—although Adam’s always been ridiculously light and tonight is no exception; tonight he feels smaller and vulnerable in his arms on top of that—and he’s able to stand with Adam’s arms around his neck and his hands firm beneath his thighs to hold him up against him.

He doesn’t think Adam will fall asleep, frightened as he still obviously is, but he walks slowly towards the parking lot to make extra sure Adam won’t get dislodged from his hold with sudden movements.

If there are paparazzi lurking, pictures of them like this will be the joke of the week at worst, will bring around their bromance in all the ways the public seems to love. Blake has more important things to do than worry about that; he doesn’t even check for flashes around.

Usher is parked about twenty feet away when Carson spots them and runs to them, wide-eyed and alarmed.

“Jesus, Blake,” the host exclaims, hands hovering over Adam before settling on the smaller man’s shoulders, grip loosening when Adam moans and burrows closer to Blake, shuddering, “What happened?”

Blake shakes his head grimly but shushes Adam softly, letting him know it’s just Carson and them and Usher driving. “Get in the car,” he states, “I’ll explain later.”

Adam doesn’t even want to let go of him once they’re on their way to Usher’s place. They sit in the back and Blake murmurs reassurances to the younger man in a low voice to keep him both awake and calm.

During the first red light they come across, Carson and Usher turn to look at them.

Blake heaves a long sigh, bites his lip and stalls, looking through the window at the people walking casually in the street as if nothing major happened today when it’s the exact opposite for him.

The driving license he saved seems to burn in his jeans.

He still wants to kill the bastard, but at least he got him good. That has to be enough.

He can’t believe what almost happened with him right there, believing like an idiot that he was doing such a good job at keeping Adam safe from that creep.

“There was a man tonight at the bar,” Blake says at length, “He roofied Adam’s drink, I don’t even know when, and took him outside when I wasn’t looking. He almost—almost,” Blake swallows. He can’t even say it, can just hold Adam a little tighter and keep going, “But I found them in time and stopped him.”

“We were—“ Carson stammers, appalled, “We were just away for like fifteen minutes, how—“

“Damn it, I don’t know!” Blake bursts out, taking another deep breath to calm himself down, “Sorry, I just—I kept an eye on Adam all night and the one second I’m not looking, it happens and I—“

“Wasn’t your fault,” Carson cuts him off, stern, “You didn’t know what could happen. None of us did. Hell, I really thought Adam was just drunk off his ass and needed a ride home.”

“Shouldn’t we take him to a hospital or something?” Usher ventures, eyes darting from him to Carson before he has to turn back around and keep driving, “Is he hurt? What did you do with the psycho that drugged him?”

Blake looks down at Adam for a minute, the car speeding again. His hazel eyes are half-lidded and his bruises are getting darker already but he’s not panicking and Blake knows that getting him to a hospital would only end up adding shit to what’s already awful without the extra help.

He’ll patch Adam up himself.

“Adam’s alright, just a little shaken. And I huh—I beat the fucker a little,” he drawls, “Had to teach him what ‘no’ means the hard way.”

Blake doesn’t admit he actually beat the asshole half-way to his grave but something in his face must’ve given him away because his friends shake their heads and seem oddly approving, don’t even argue with him about why he didn’t call the cops.

“Good,” Carson says, just like that, and gestures Usher to take the next exit so they can go to his house.

***

They put a towel and a big frozen beef beneath Adam’s head as he lies down on Carson’s couch. He winces but stays put even when Blake cleans his face and dabs his cuts with antiseptic, closing the larger graze on his cheek with butterfly stitches.

He asks Adam if he’s sore anywhere else and the lead man says no softly but too quickly. Blake doesn’t call him out of his bullshit, not even when Adam tentatively curls on his side and hisses.

He just stays by his side, sitting on the coffee table and holding a pack of frozen spinaches against Adam’s head when the meat gets warm.

There’s one more thing that he wants to ask, that he needs to know, and Carson exchanges a look with him that tells him he agrees.

They have to do this before Adam can forget about what happened.

“Adam,” Blake calls until Adam’s eyes flutter open, “Did he touch you?”

“Uh?” Adam asks, brow furrowing in confusion, “What?”

“You think the wacko had time to—“ Usher sputters, pacing behind the couch and covering his face with his hands when Carson nods gravely, “No way!”

“Before I got there, did he touch you?” Blake repeats slowly, thumb tracing Adam’s cheekbone and hand spread on the side of his neck to steady him and keep him looking up at him, “I saw his hand down your pants, Adam. Did he—“

Adam pales and goes a little green. He tugs at Blake’s sleeve and Blake is moving and helping him up before he can finish saying, “I’m gonna be sick.”

In the bathroom, Adam only gags as Blake draws soothing circles on his back, Carson and Usher staying right outside the open door.

They’re all holding their breaths because they didn’t get an answer but this looks like a yes.

When it doesn’t look like Adam will throw up after all, Blake helps him rinse his mouth and takes him back to the living room.

They stare at him while he drinks water in tiny sips, hands shaky and shoulders hunched.

“He…” Adam starts, ducks his head and starts over, “No, he—he kissed me and groped me but—no.”

Blake sags in relief, sitting on the couch next to Adam and pulling him to his side gently, mindful of the bruises on his back. He can tell his friends are grateful it wasn’t worse than they originally thought too, hears them sighing and relaxing as they look at Adam.

“You fought back,” he says in awe, “He drugged you, Adam, and you fought back.”

“Hmm,” Adam hums, finishes the water and rubs his eyes.

He looks so young, so small. Blake can’t help but holding him closer, chest heaving with the weight of all the things that could’ve gone wrong tonight.

Adam snuggles into his chest willingly, tucks his head under Blake’s chin. His fingers fist the fabric of his shirt and he talks into his neck, muffled and dozy. “Stay?”

Blake feels him going slack with sleep before he can offer a reply and smiles. This open, absolute display of trust is better than any thanks than Adam could say to him and it soothes him enough to lie back on the cushions and lose the tension in his body for the first time in what feels like hours but it’s probably been only two, at the most.

They’re all quiet as Usher cleans the cuts on his knuckles and scrubs the dry blood away.

“You’re both staying too,” Carson announces suddenly, “The last thing we need is either of you getting into a car crash to make this night the best of the year.”

Usher makes a face. “Yeah, yeah,” he turns to Blake and smirks, “Big hero here was staying anyway.”

“Damn right,” Blake says even though he’s no hero—even though he still thinks back to Adam nodding out at the bar and him taking the poor decision of leaving his friend alone, even though he remembers the jokes he made that turned to be horribly foreboding in the end.

He scoops Adam up gently, walking to the guest room in Carson’s place that’s conveniently on the first floor.

The bed is big but Blake’s frame is the only one that occupies any space in it; Adam spends the night with his ear against his heart, curled up on top of him and barely moving at all.

Blake lies awake, breathing when Adam does, and vows not to ever let this happen again.


	2. Chapter 2

When Adam wakes up, it’s only Blake’s soft snoring what keeps him from jolting and screaming. His friend’s arms around his body are warm and comforting but he shivers anyway without knowing _why_. He aches in so many places he can’t count them but he stays still and looks around.

He doesn’t know where they are—this isn’t his bed or Blake’s, that much he knows after more than a couple of times of staying late talking and drinking and losing track of time with the Country star—and it’s too dark to figure it out without moving.

His face hurts a lot. His back too but the worst pain is in his head. He closes his eyes tight but the pounding is still excruciating. It’s a feat to suppress the tears but he manages. He untucks his head from under Blake’s chin and wobbles to—he doesn’t even _know_ , he just—he just needs to move.

He hits his shoulder against the wall with a dull thud and winces but bites his lip not to moan. He palms his way against the wall until he finds a door and opens it, his bare feet freezing on the cold tiles of what has to be the en-suite.

He closes the door, turns on the light and stares at his reflection in the mirror until he can’t take it and slides to the floor, hands trembling as his fingertips touch wounds on his face he doesn’t remember getting _at all._

He doesn’t know how long he sits there but it’s enough to feel too cold and to realize he smells like dirt and sweat.

There are towels on a cabinet so he figures that wherever this is—Carson’s place? Usher’s?—it’ll be okay if he takes a shower.

He strips and scrubs himself clean, standing under the hot water spray until the air is all steam and he can hardly breathe.

Wherever he feels a bruise blossoming on his skin, he presses it.

He still can’t remember what happened.

***

He jumps when he opens the door back to the room and collides against Blake’s broad chest.

Pretending he almost didn’t have a heart attack, he shoulders past him and sits on the bed, naked except for a pair of boxers and a dry fluffy towel he snatched to keep warm.

He wants to go home but his chest threatens to close in on his lungs at the mere thought of leaving.

It’s hard to blink, to pretend he’s okay when he feels like something’s crumbling and screaming inside of him.

“Adam,” Blake whispers, licking his lips and blinking owlishly at him. It’s his worried face and Adam doesn’t like it, “How’re you feeling, buddy?”

Adam shrugs—as much as he can while tugging the towel snugly around himself—and crosses his legs, the only part of him visible besides his head.

It’s awkward silence with Blake staring at him and Adam refusing to meet his eyes that he spends swirling his legs back and forth on the tall bed.

It’s probably childish but he doesn’t want to admit he doesn’t remember shit about last night besides drinking and—and dancing, maybe, there’s definitely a flash of Blake making a fool of himself in his mind.

It’s almost enough to make him smile but the corner of his lips only twitch. It’s all he can manage.

Blake doesn’t force anything out of him. He walks to the bathroom, opens a drawer and comes back to put a pill in Adam’s hand.

Adam squints at him, swallowing the sobs that are trying to push their way out of his throat.

“It’s a Tylenol,” Blake tells him softly, “Hold on, I’ll bring you some water.”

He hears Blake’s big feet padding out of the room. His heart thumps almost painfully in his chest when the footsteps get lost in the silence of the house.

This time, when he blinks, he has to sneak a hand out of the towel to wipe tears off his face.

He doesn’t even know why he’s crying—it’s not only the headache but whatever else pressing down on him that slips through his mind’s imaginary fingertips like drops of rain.

He just knows he doesn’t want to be alone right now.

It seems ages until Blake finally comes back and gently hands him a glass of water.

His friend’s fingers readjust the towel that’s just fallen off his shoulder, his palm staying there and his thumb rubbing his collarbone while he drinks between hiccups that he refuses to call sobs.

“I don’t—“ Adam bites his lip, clinging to Blake’s side like a leech when the taller man offers a hug with one arm, “What time is it?”

It’s not what he wanted to ask. When he closes his eyes, he sees all the bruises on his body; his reflection a mockery that lets him know he has no self-control.

Blake seems to understand anyway.

“Eleven in the morning,” he replies, his words muffled against Adam’s wet hair, the sun outside the open curtains backing up his words, “And I’ll tell you, if you want to know, buddy.”

It’d be a lie, Adam thinks, to say he doesn’t enjoy the way Blake curls around him almost—or actually—protectively.

It calms his palpitations, turns the back of his eyelids a less threatening place to be; instead of his wounds, there’s only dark and the warmth of Blake’s company for him to feel.

“Do you remember that guy last night, the one that was harassing you?” Blake asks.

Adam frowns. He does, remembers the man’s creepy stare and bushy beard and how his hands closed like claws on him.

“Did I get into a fight with him?” he winces, “It’s all over the news, isn’t it? _Fuck_.”

“It’s not,” Blake soothes, pausing to break apart and cup Adam’s face to look directly into his eyes. He looks—upset and it’s the first time ever Adam’s seen him _this_ much upset, “Adam, you were—he drugged you, that’s why you don’t remember.”

He gulps, his brain screeching to a halt like the wheels of a car before a cliff.

He blinks up at his friend, puzzled, and grips Blake’s arms so tight his knuckles hurt. “What?”

“He drugged you,” Blake repeats, voice wavering, “Adam, you were almost raped. If I hadn’t been there, you—I’m so sorry.”

Adam stares at him, his eyes darting over every feature of Blake’s candid, handsome face.

He can’t remember what Blake is talking about but he does remember his friend staying close to him all night after too many close encounters with that creep, remembers how safe he felt with Blake by his side.

He raises a hand to his cheek, taking Blake’s hand in his for a moment. He traces the scrapes on the Country star’s knuckles with his fingertips, imagining how hard Blake must’ve fought for him.

His breath catches in his throat.

“Don’t say you’re sorry, asshole,” he says, teasing, his voice too small for it to be believable but hey, he’s trying and that’s gotta count for something, “You should say ‘you’re welcome’ and make fun of me for needing you to come to my rescue.”

Blake shakes his head, his eyes big and brimming with unshed tears. “I can’t—“

Adam lets the towel drop from his back and holds on to Blake’s neck with both arms, one palm cradling his cheek as he kisses the other one and stays close because he’s still cold despite of the scalding shower he took and Blake is warm and cozy.

He really is a walking comfy fireplace. Adam can’t be blamed for wanting to cuddle with him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against Blake’s neck, “You’re amazing.”

Blake makes a strangled noise and stretches to get his jacket from the foot of the bed, draping it around Adam’s shoulders as his arms hug Adam just tight enough not to make him feel like a clingy fool and not to worsen the soreness on his back.

***

Adam is lightly dozing in Blake’s arms when the door opens and Carson comes into the room with James and Usher trailing behind.

They say good morning way too cheerfully and wait awkwardly as Adam rummages through the bag his bandmate brought for him. There are tight jeans and t-shirts in it along with loose yoga-pants and hoodies, as if James wasn’t exactly sure what Adam would like and decided to make everything available for him just in case.

Usher has a tray filled with sandwiches in his hands and leaves it on the nightstand as Carson frowns and prods at Adam’s bruises when he stands in just his underwear to start dressing.

It’s not like he’s ever been modest and he doesn’t remember why he should be anyway—it’s not like any of his friends are going to jump on him.

It’s bad, probably, the way he misses the feel of Blake’s big hands on his back.

“Nothing is broken?” Carson asks as if still unsure after making Adam hiss and swat his hands away, “You’re okay?”

Adam snorts, pulling a hoodie over his head after zipping his jeans. “Unless you want to count my dignity, then no, everything’s fine.”

James sighs, looks like he wants to scold Adam for being careless but thinks better of it and shoves a sandwich in Adam’s mouth.

Adam complains through the first bite.

“Your stomach is grumbling,” his friend offers with a shrug and smiles at him as he turns around, “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I should go too,” Usher says, patting Adam’s shoulder, “I’m really glad you’re okay, man. Take care.”

Adam waves at them and sits cross-legged in the bed to munch his way through another sandwich. He gives one to Blake and chuckles when the Country singer takes an exaggeratedly large bite, filling his cheeks up like a squirrel.

This is Carson’s house then, Adam deduces, and he should leave too.

Even if he doesn’t want to be alone, he has work to do. His team needs him.

“Adam, I wish I could tell you I can get you extra time,” Carson says, guilty, “But I can’t. You have until Monday, same as usual.”

Adam nods. He wasn’t expecting anything different. The live shows leave no extra time, after all. “It’s cool, seriously, it’s hard to be traumatized over something you don’t remember.”

His offhand comment makes both of his friends grimace.

Adam pretends he doesn’t see them and assures them that he’s alright even though he’s not, even though he wishes he could crawl into his bed and hide from the world for a month.

It brings a sour taste to his mouth, knowing he was stupid enough to let some douche drug him and almost—almost—

He touches his lips gingerly when Carson and Blake aren’t looking and shivers, wondering if it’s possible his body remembers but his mind doesn’t because that’s how it _feels_ but maybe he’s just being paranoid.

Maybe—no, he really needs to let this go.

Blake saved him, right? Nothing happened. He’s okay, he’s _fine_.

The three of them agree it’s going to be the best to lie about this and say he was mugged.

Adam leaves, phone already in hand to check on his team.

***

They don’t have time to hang out at all for the rest of the week but Blake calls him every night and they talk and joke even more than usual, almost during every break he has from rehearsals.

He paces in the hallway, phone cradled in his ear and arm around his middle, and wishes Blake could sneak out just for one little moment to give him a hug.

It’s been a challenge to get any sleep at all, between how worried he is for the competition and the nightmares he has but can’t recall when he jerks awake in the middle of the night.

Without make-up, he looks like a fucking zombie; his face and neck a collection of bruises about as purple as the bags under his eyes and the rest of his skin sallow because everything he eats tastes like ash in his mouth and it’s hard to reel in the panic that bubbles inside of him when he remembers he didn’t even notice the pill—or whatever it was—in his drink.

He’s sure that if he even _smells_ beer any time soon he’s going to throw up until next week.

He flinches every time someone touches him unexpectedly. After the first couple of days, no one tries touching him at all because even when it’s expected he tenses.

Hugging his team is kind of a challenge but he manages. They need the reassurance that they’re great and Adam won’t let his personal life get in the way of being the best coach he can be.

On Sunday evening, he realizes he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop—waiting for _Chuck_ to come back to finish what he started because he promised, didn’t he? And Adam is too much of a wimp to stop him.

So he waits, he waits and tells himself he’s not scared because fake-it-‘til-you-make-it is about the best plan he can conjure.

Looking to the empty side of his bed in the dead of night, curled on his side because that’s the position that hurts the less, becomes a habit. His eyes are damp and his mind is yearning, using up memories he has of Blake sharing the space with him.

***

On Monday, Blake is—he’s incredible with him, that’s the only way to put it.

The stress of the live show seems almost too much for Adam even though the focus isn’t even on him and he’s sure he’s going to pass out and make an absolute ass of himself because he can’t fucking _breathe_ when Blake walks to his seat during a commercial break and doesn’t leave—not even when Carson halfheartedly asks him to—patting his thigh and making Adam sit in his lap as they discuss their artists as if nothing was different at all.

Adam has an easier time breathing and thinking with Blake holding him close, even through the screams of the audience.

That night, he sleeps better.

The sleeping pills his therapist suggested are still on his bedside table; Adam refuses to take them. He’s had one bad experience with them and one is enough.

***

Blake loses one artist the following night.

Adam invites himself over to his place because he knows his friend has a tendency to take this hard and even harder when it’s a young little girl he cares too much about.

He makes it his personal mission to cheer the giant goof of a man up with the least amount of booze possible and somehow manages it at some point around three, Blake’s loud laughter letting him know he did a good job at it.

They fall asleep on Blake’s big couch with Adam’s lips way too snug against Blake’s neck and Blake’s hands way too low on Adam’s back but neither of them is embarrassed about it when they wake up.

Adam can’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed and he’s also hungry for a change, which is good.

They disentangle slowly and smile to each other, sharing breakfast before carrying on with their respective schedules.

Adam wants to thank him but Blake kisses him before he can get the word out, just this shy of missing the corner of his lips and going straight for his mouth.

His heart flutters and he feels a little light-headed.

He looks at Blake and the Country star grins at him, all dimples and eye-crinkles. Adam ducks his head, trying to hide his own smile. He doesn’t know how long Blake had been watching him but it makes him feel warm.

He leaves, ignoring the familiar tingle in the pit of his stomach that he won’t acknowledge as butterflies because that’d be fucking ridiculous.

He’s a grown-ass man and he’s not—he’s _not_ —he’s not crushing on one of his best friends.

_He’s not._

***

They get together on Adam’s house next time, a tacit agreement that he’s not in any state of mind to go out so soon.

It surprises him that they can have fun in between the whirlwind of activity of the show but they do.

Adam spends most of the night either snuggling against Blake or in his lap but by now even Pharrell and Gwen are unfazed by it and Adam forgets to be embarrassed about it, about how much he likes Blake’s hands on his sides or feeling Blake’s broad chest against his back.

It’s only when it’s just the two of them and Blake gives him a peck on the cheek that Adam realizes something.

He scowls and pushes Blake away from him but it’s hard to put actual distance between them when he’s still straddling his thighs and Blake is so huge.

“What is it, little guy?” Blake chuckles, “Is it your bed time already?”

“Your breath,” Adam points out, ignoring him, “What were you drinking, ginger ale?”

Blake shrugs but tenses which tells Adam as much as he needs to know. “I don’t know, who cares?”

“Me,” Adam replies, rubbing his face with a hand, “You didn’t have to—I can handle it. I wanted you to have fun.”

Blake bats his eyes at him, calm. “You know that’s actually possible without alcohol, right?”

“But—“

Blake gives him his patented glare of _bullcrap_ and cuts him off. “You think I didn’t notice how you go a little green and scrunch your nose when someone drinks around you?”

Adam would feel more self-conscious about it but Blake tickles his nose with a finger and laughs, doesn’t look the least bothered about the forced sobriety Adam quite pathetically demanded from him, so he does not.

He’s about to whisper thanks when he realizes he’s way too close to Blake to even speak without—wow, he could really kiss him now, a real lips-on-lips kiss instead of a eskimo kiss or a peck on the corner of his mouth.

Blake sighs softly, his breath caressing the skin on Adam’s chin, and looks at him through half-lidded eyes that make his own almost close in response as he leans to him just a bit closer.

So maybe— _maybe_ he does have a bit of a crush on his friend. His heart rebels against his halfhearted admission, striking him from the inside out to remind him it’s not really little and he could get in actual trouble if he acts on it because he can’t lose Blake and as touchy-feely as the guy is, he doesn’t mean anything by it. Adam could really freak him out if he kisses him.

“You’re staying the night?” he asks instead.

Blake grins, burrows into his shoulder to shower the side of his neck with kisses that make Adam shiver and bite back moans.

“Damn right I am,” the Country star answers, standing up with Adam hanging from his neck, his hands gentle but firm as they rearrange Adam’s legs around his hips.

Adam enjoys the ride with his eyes closed, sudden tears threatening to stream down his cheeks.

It hurts, having Blake like this but not having him at all.

“You okay, buddy?” Blake drawls, worried, after letting go of Adam on the mattress with a laugh and not much finesse.

Adam nods, watery eyed. “Tired,” he lies, clinging to the older man’s chest when he climbs onto the bed with him.

***

He wakes up to a arm around his waist and little pecks on his cheek, Blake’s stubble burning his jaw just enough to be pleasant.

Blake is like a furnace on his back and it’s impossible not to lean against him a little more.

“Stop it,” he mumbles, his breath coming out in half a moan.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Blake greets, his voice rough with sleep of his own, his hands pressing on Adam’s sides for a moment and up to his ribs, “You need a big, hearty breakfast. I’m on it.”

He gets up and keeps prattling on but Adam doesn’t hear him, rolling onto the empty—but warm, so warm—side of the bed and closing his eyes as he burrows into the pillow that smells faintly of Blake’s aftershave.

He doesn’t remember when he lost his pants but Blake rouses him with a hand on his bare thigh, a tray filled with waffles and juice for them in the other.

When they can’t keep delaying the inevitable—work mostly but also the fact they’re _not_ together, they’re just not—he opens the front door and Blake turns back to look at him, his blue eyes bright under the sun of L.A and his movements slow as if he didn’t want to be away from Adam just yet.

He only gets to his truck after Adam promises to hunt for him in the studio so they can have lunch together.

***

He’s come to terms with this—whatever ‘this’ is, their situation, Adam’s stupid feelings for the biggest and funniest teddy bear on the planet—when it happens.

They’re hanging out in Blake’s trailer, just the two of them, celebrating with the first sip of alcohol Adam’s had in weeks that both of them have a race horse in the finale when Blake breaks into a smile and pulls him closer to his chest.

Adam tries not to squeak but his thighs tremble, bracketing Blake’s hips, and his hands sweat. He’s never—they’ve never been this close, at least not while awake, no matter how much Blake likes joking about reach arounds.

Then Blake’s lips are on his, plush and slightly chapped, and Adam is quick to smear the remnants of the lipstick the make-up department put on him for the live show all over Blake’s mouth, leaving it soft and shiny and a bit sticky.

Blake laughs, deep and low in his chest making Adam shiver with the vibrations he can feel with the space that isn’t between them anymore, and licks into his mouth instead of making the joke about girly lips that Adam just _knew_ he was thinking about.

Their tongues flick against each other and Adam feels it down to his toes, stuttering another moan when Blake gently nips his bottom lip.

He kneads Blake’s shoulders beneath his hands and kisses back with all he’s got and more, panting with his forehead against Blake’s after air runs low.

They look at each other through half-lidded eyes. The silence that Adam thought was going to be oppressive and awkward is anything but, feels like the intro of a good and long song they’re willing to learn and enjoy together because they’re already fond of the main melody.

He underestimated Blake but he’s never been happier of being wrong.

They’re still kissing, Adam’s arm weaving around Blake’s head to press as close to him as humanly possible as their lips and tongues get to know each other, when Carson comes to usher them out of the set because it’s late.

Blake waves him off with a hand, the other firm between Adam’s shoulder blades, and Adam muffles another moan into his mouth.

The door closes with a click.

They leave eventually but it’s almost Adam’s favorite thing, how Blake can’t stop beaming and holding his hand as they walk to his car.

What happened in the bar that night is a memory that still haunts him but his anxiety is absurdly easy to control with Blake’s help.

The fear never fades completely, not unless he’s between Blake’s arms, but his lover never stops doing everything he can to make Adam feel safe and that’s—that’s more than enough.


End file.
